


To Say We're In Love Is Dangerous

by vintagerogers



Series: I'm Just Trying To Love You Crazy [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inner Dialogue, Insecure Wade, M/M, Mild Smut, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 01:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15159581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagerogers/pseuds/vintagerogers
Summary: He looks back at Peter as he pulls his hood up, baseball cap pulled down low over his head. He looks angelic, curled up beneath Wade's sheets, hair fanned out across the pillow, eyelashes against his cheeks.Wade loves him. Wade loves him so much.





	To Say We're In Love Is Dangerous

**Author's Note:**

> im back bitches!!!!!!!!!!!! after an extremely extended hiatus i finally have the energy to actually care about things again!!!!! and as per usual i care more about spideypool than i care about most other things so here the fuck we are :~)
> 
> i wrote this fic over the span of like three hours based on a prompt that's been sitting in my tumblr inbox since the last time i logged in SEVERAL months ago but it made me so sad i couldnt NOT write it ja feel??? it was only supposed to be a drabble but as we all know, i ramble, so it kinda took on a life of its own
> 
> i hope you love it anyway!!!! :~)

The moonlight, filtering in between the tears in the torn curtains, slants across the carpet, the far wall, the side of the bed, and it bathes Peter in a soft, white light that makes him look even more angelic than usual. He's curled up against Wade's side, hair in his eyes, and he's beautiful. He's really beautiful. 

It's not news. He's always beautiful. He has wide, dark eyes, and high, sharp cheekbones, and a smile that makes Wade feel all sorts of things he's not entirely comfortable feeling. Some of the things it makes him feel are familiar things, and Wade can handle those things. Wade's wanted to put his dick in Peter since the very first time they met, before Wade even knew him as Peter, back when he only knew him as Spider-Man. The very first time they had met, his ass had looked incredible in the spandex he was wearing, and his snark hadn't been enough to rival Wade's, but it been close. Wade wanted to fuck him until couldn't think. 

When Wade was finally introduced to Peter as Peter, when he finally got to see the dark eyes, the messy hair that were hiding under his mask, he wanted so much to bend him over the nearest surface and fuck him stupid. He wanted to come over his sharp, pretty cheekbones. It was a familiar feeling.

It was when Peter had smiled at him for the first time, a wide, proper smile, that Wade had started to feel all sorts of things he wasn't entirely comfortable feeling. He could handle how badly he wanted to fuck him until he was nothing more than a panting, squirming mess. He was used to wanting to fuck him until he was nothing more than a panting, squirming mess. It's the rest of the things that were sudden, unfamiliar, unwelcome. It's the things that make his chest warm, that make him want to wrap his arms around Peter and hold him just as much as they make him want to fuck him. Sometimes, Peter will smile at him, and he'll have the sudden, overwhelming urge to better himself, to shape himself into somebody that deserves somebody like Peter. 

Wade, as a person, is not somebody that deserves Peter. He's a bad person, a criminal, a fucking murderer, and Peter is all kinds of soft, sweet, gentle. Wade, even on his best day, is a mess. He's destroyed every relationship he's ever had, usually just by being himself, sometimes by getting too into his own head and packing up his things and leaving in the middle of the night. Because he didn’t deserve them, because they were too good for him. And so far, none of them have been even close to as good as Peter. Peter's the fucking best. 

_He's too good for you_ , says one of the tiny, niggling voices in the back of his mind, and Wade fucking knows he is. 

_He's beautiful_ , chimes the other, unhelpful, and Wade fucking knows that, too. 

Peter _is_ beautiful. Peter's fucking stunning, and curled up on his side of Wade’s bed, laying in the white light slanting into the room from between the tears in the curtains, he looks every bit like an angel. 

Wade's sprawled across the bed much less gracefully, watching the flutter of Peter’s eyelashes against his cheeks, bleeding into the sheets beneath them through layers of gauze and bandages.

The bleeding’s definitely slowed since he first collapsed through the living room window, bleeding all over the fucking place.

 _You're never getting your security deposit back_ , one of the voices had chimed, but he ignored it. He already fucking knew he's never getting his security deposit back. It wasn’t the first time he's bled all over this carpet. It definitely won't be the last. 

Peter had watched him with soft, concerned eyes as Wade bled all over the carpet and his hands, getting him tacky, staining his skin, but he hadn’t complained. He's too good. He's way too fucking good. 

He'd been curled up on the couch when Wade had heaved himself in through the window, watching America's Next Top Model reruns, looking soft, small in a pair of Wade's sweatpants and a hoodie he’d been drowning in. They'd never talked about moving in together, and Wade's, like, ninety percent sure that Peter's still paying rent for an apartment that's probably nicer than Wade's, but it's a waste of his money, really. They'd never talked about moving in together, but Peter had kind of moved in when Wade hadn't been paying attention. It hadn’t even been a gradual thing. He'd spent one night, then two, then he'd just never left. He has a toothbrush in Wade's bathroom. He has a side of Wade’s bed. He has clothes in Wade's closet, but he only ever wears clothes he takes from Wade, anyway. He's way too fucking good. 

He'd scrambled over the back of the couch when Wade had collapsed through the window, sprawling gracelessly out across the carpet. He'd quickly held his hand to the ugly, gaping wound in Wade's stomach, colouring himself with Wade's blood.

 _He's too good for you_ , that same voice reminds him again, and Wade's eyes, still fixed on the rise and fall of Peter’s chest, almost start to roll back in his head. He fucking knows Peter's too good for him. 

His hand is still pressed against Wade's stomach, even as he sleeps, even as it heals beneath his fingertips. If Wade had to pick something else about him, something that wasn't his smile that made his chest feel warmer, lighter, he'd pick the way Peter always insists on trying to bandage, stitch, hold together Wade's various wounds and injuries. They'll heal, and he knows they'll heal, but he insists. 

He'd told Wade once, after he'd bandaged an ugly wound in Wade's throat, dangerously close to being temporarily fatal, that he'd do whatever it takes to keep from having to watch Wade die. It never got any easier watching him die, he'd told him. 

Wade hadn't ever watched Peter die, but imagining it made his chest constrict in an awful, terrible way. He could only imagine how Peter felt.

He'd kissed him, then, and tried his best to start dying less often. 

He's doing pretty good, all things considered. The wound is stomach didn’t kill him, so he considered it a win. 

"I sent you out for _milk_ ," Peter had scolded, but he was still watching Wade with soft, concerned eyes. The sleeves of his sweater were rolled up at the wrists so they fit him properly. He's so beautiful. "You were gone for ten minutes!" 

"In my defence," Wade said, and Peter immediately narrowed his eyes. "I've gotten stabbed in less time," Wade reminded him. 

The look on Peter's face had told Wade that he hadn’t been helping his case at all. 

_Of course you're not, dumb fucking dumbass_ , that voice chimed. _You know he doesn't like thinking about you getting hurt._

 _He loves you so much_ , the other voice added dreamily, and Wade's chest constricts kind of painfully, even now, thinking back on it.

 _I can't imagine why_ , the first voice adds dryly, interrupting his train of thought. _He's too good you._

It's not like Wade doesn’t fucking know that already. He fucking knows. 

"You're an idiot," Peter had told him, and he said it shortly, almost spat it, but Wade could hear his voice crack partway through, could see, beneath the disapproving look he was giving Wade, how scared Wade had made him. 

Wade had felt a pang of guilt for scaring him, and it terrified him. 

He reached up with one hand, brushing his thumb across Peter's cheek, just beneath his eye. "I'm _your_ idiot," he reminded him, and he didn’t realize quite how true it was until he said it out loud. He’s Peter's in every way he could possibly be Peter's. It terrifies him. 

Then Peter had smiled, nuzzling against Wade's palm, and the tightness in Wade's chest immediately started to ease. That was fucking terrifying, too. That was almost more fucking terrifying.

In a way, Peter fucking terrifies him. In a way, Wade kind of fucking loves that about him. 

_You love everything about him_ , one of the voices reminds him. Wade's quick to ignore it. 

"Don't give me that look, baby boy," he had said, thumbing across Peter's skin with a gloved hand again, just beneath his eye. "You know I'm indestructible." 

Peter was still looking at him with wide, worried eyes, and it was beautiful. He's beautiful. Wade thumbed across his cheek again. "You don't need to waste time worrying about me, beautiful," he said, and Peter's cheeks coloured as he says it, just like they always do. Like Peter doesn't know how unbelievably fucking beautiful he is. "I'll always come back to you. It's gonna take more than a few punctured organs to keep me away from you and your pretty face." 

Peter's lips twitched like they always do when he's trying not to smile. It made warmth spread through Wade's chest, pleasant, just as much as it made it almost difficult for him to breathe. 

He likes making Peter happy. He likes making Peter smile. It's selfish, though, and he knows it's selfish, to hold Peter back as much as he does just because he likes the warmth that spreads through him when he sees him smile, the ridiculous, giddy sort of feeling it gives him whenever he makes him laugh. 

Peter makes Wade happy. He makes him so happy, but it's so selfish, because Peter could do so much better, and Wade holds him back so much. 

Emotionally, he's stunted. Morally, he's totally fucked. Physically, he's _really_ , totally fucked. He's great at sex, he'll admit, but Peter's beautiful and he could easily find somebody just as good at sex and that doesn't look like they had taken a cheese grater to every inch of their body before they lit themselves on fire. 

As Wade had laid, sprawled across the carpet, fucking bleeding all over the place, Peter kept watching him with wide, beautiful eyes, trying not to smile, and it makes warmth spread through Wade's chest, even at the memory, because he made Peter smile, because Peter was trying his best to be stern but he couldn’t keep himself from smiling because Wade makes him smile. It makes his chest tighten, his stomach turn because Peter deserves so, so much better. It makes it hard to breathe because Peter can't even see how much Wade's holding him back, how much better he deserves. 

_He loves you so much_ , that same, unwelcome voice reminds him again, and it makes Wade's chest tighten again. 

Peter's only ever willing to see the best in him. It's the closest thing he has to a flaw. Even after everything Wade's said, seen, done, even after all the people he's killed in cold blood, even after all the times he's literally died in Peter's arms, Peter still loves him, because he refuses to see anything but the best in Wade. He still sees him as a person, as a good person, as a person worthy of love, but he's wrong. 

He's wrong. Wade's barely worth of common human decency, much less love, much less love from somebody as fucking good as Peter. Peter's just too fucking good. 

He's always willing to see the best in everybody. Even the people he meets as Spider-Man, the people who literally try to kill him. Even Wade. 

He reaches out to him as he sleeps, thumbing slowly across the soft skin of Peter’s cheek. 

Even Wade, who has too much blood on his hands, both figuratively and literally. Wade, who's an awful person when he's at his very best. Wade, who could never, ever give Peter the life that he deserves. 

He deserves even better than the very best. He deserves so much more than Wade can give him. 

He deserves somebody that won't make him move every few months when they get into more trouble with the law, or the landlord. He deserves somebody that doesn't leave him for weeks on end to kill people in other states, countries, continents for money. He deserves somebody that can take him out, show him off. Wade can't even do that much. 

He can't even take off his suit and take Peter on a proper date. Even beneath the suit, the mask, the weapons, Wade still isn't somebody that can take Peter out like he deserves to be taken out. He's still a spectacle. Peter likes museums, and he likes Central Park, and he likes the small café a few blocks from their house that's overgrown with ivy, but Wade can't take him to any of those places because even beneath the mask, he's still a spectacle. He's scarred skin, and he's sores, and he's a deep, hoarse voice that sounds like it'd belong to somebody that ate rocks and smoked ten packets of cigarettes every day for fifty years. He's somebody people stare at, leer at, are afraid of, and it doesn't bother him anymore. He's used to people staring at him, not even trying to hide it, and people turning the other way or crossing the street or jumping like he's burned them whenever they get too close to him. It's not his favourite thing in the world, but he's used to it, he can handle it. 

Peter deserves better. He deserves somebody that he doesn't have to be ashamed to be seen with in public. He deserves somebody that he can take to museums, to Central Park, to that small café a few blocks from their apartment that's overgrown with ivy and not cause a scene. He deserves somebody that won't get him shouted at, stared at, leered at in public. He deserves better. 

He deserves so much fucking better, but he doesn't even realize how much better he deserves. He doesn't even realize how bad Wade is as a person, how bad Wade is for him. He refuses to see anything but the best in Wade. 

_It's cause he's in love with you, dumb fucking dumbass_ , that voice tells him again, and Wade knows. He fucking knows. 

He'd tried to convince himself that it was just puppy love, in the beginning. Peter's young, he's so young, barely twenty one to Wade's, _Jesus fucking Christ_ , almost forty, and in the beginning, on particularly bad nights, when he'd be laying in bed and all he could think about was Peter, his smile, he'd tried to convince himself that it was just puppy love. Peter was young. His love was temporary. He'd be tired of Wade soon enough. 

It was more than that, though. Wade knew it was more than that. There were quite a few days that Wade put a bullet in his brain just to stop the voices from telling him that, if only for a little while. Then he'd wake up, and Peter would be there, sometimes teary, always concerned, watching him with his wide, beautiful eyes and Wade knew it was more than that. 

The only thing that had kept him from leaving, the only reason he still hasn't left, is because he's really, really selfish. He loves Peter's company, his smile, the sound of his laugh, the fucking _sex_ , oh my God, he loves the sex. The noises Peter makes, breathless, like they've been punched out of him, how absolutely unbelievable he always feels around Wade's cock. He always opens up so pliantly around his fingers, his cock, his legs hitched over Wade's hips, his shoulders. He shivers, his eyelashes flutter, he makes the hottest fucking sounds Wade's ever heard in his entire fucking life. Sometimes, if Wade's been particularly well behaved, if he's gone a few days without getting himself killed, Peter will let Wade fuck him in his glasses, foggy and crooked on Peter's nose as Wade fucks him. Fuck, and when he rides Wade, his hands pressed against Wade's skin, his head tilted up towards the ceiling, it's one of Wade's favourite fucking things in the entire fucking world. 

Everything about Peter is his favourite fucking thing in the entire fucking world, actually. He knows how much better off Peter would be without him, but he loves everything about him, and he's so, so selfish. It doesn't bother him, normally. It's a flaw, but Wade's mostly flaws, and he's mostly come to terms with them. It's just that Peter makes him want to be a better person. His smile, his eyes, the way he looks at Wade, it makes him want to be a better person. It makes him want to be less selfish. He just doesn't know if he can. He doesn't know if he has the willpower to never see Peter's smile again. 

He runs his thumb across Peter's cheek again, and Peter leans into his hand, making a soft, sleepy sound against Wade’s scarred hand. It make’s Wade’s chest hurt.

It makes his chest hurt in much the same way as it had when Peter had made a soft, relieved sort of sound, and peeled his hands from Wade's bleeding stomach, sure he wasn’t going to bleed out. "Is it sore?" He asked. 

Wade shrugged. It wasn’t _not_ sore. It's definitely not the worst pain he’d ever been in but it's never incredibly pleasant to get stabbed. "Kinda," he said. 

Peter nodded, still watching him with wide, beautiful eyes, and there was a part of Wade, a selfish part, that was kind of hoping that Peter was gonna kiss it better when he suddenly, sharply, poked Wade in the bruised, healing wound in his stomach. 

" _Ow_ ," Wade protested, because it's definitely not the worst pain he's felt in the past few hours, but he absolutely could've done without it. "Fuck off! What was that for?" 

"Stop getting yourself killed!" 

He's scowling as he says it, still looking down at Wade with wide, concerned eyes. 

_He loves you so much_ , that voice reminded him again, from somewhere very deep in the back of his mind. He didn’t really need to be reminded. He didn't forget. 

He could see it, too, in the way Peter's looking at him, frustrated with him but even more concerned. And there it was. The pain in Wade’s chest.

He didn't even die, though. "I didn't even die!" 

Peter gave him another look that told him he wasn’t really not helping his case. He poked him sharply in the stomach again. "Stop almost getting yourself killed!" 

_He loves you so much_ , the voice was quick to remind him again, and Wade knows he does. He knows how much time, how much energy Peter wastes worrying about him. He knows how much better off Peter would be if he didn't have to spend so much time worrying about him. He knows how much better off Peter would be without him. 

Peter was still scowling, and Wade's hand was moving before he could stop it, cradling the side of Peter's face, thumbing slowly across his lower lip. 

Peter covered Wade's hand with one of his own. It was still covered in Wade's blood. "For me?" Peter asked softly, and his voice cracked. 

_You made him cry_ , one of the voices crowed, and it was harder to ignore this time. Wade was making him cry. _You're so awful you made him cry_. Wade knows he's awful. He knows he is. 

"Please," Peter added softly, and like, how the fuck is he supposed to say no to that? 

"You know I'd move mountains if it meant you'd let me hit it, baby boy," Wade told him, and he wasn’t lying. Peter could get Wade to do anything by promising to have sex with him. There's nothing Wade can think of, off the top of his head, that he wouldn't do for Peter if Peter bit his lip, touched Wade's thigh, pulled his shirt down off his shoulder while he asked. It's more than that, though. Peter wouldn't have to promise him sex to get Wade to do whatever he wanted him to do. He'd only have to ask. 

Wade didn’t say it, though. He only thumbed over Peter's lower lip again, not agreeing, but not disagreeing. 

Peter snorted against his palm. "What if I didn't let you hit it?" He asked. 

Wade heaved his shoulders. He didn’t tell him that he'd move mountains for him, anyway. "I'll also accept cash and travellers cheques," is what he said. 

It startled a laugh out of Peter, still sort of wet, but mostly amused. He’d gently taken Wade’s hand from his cheek, pressed a kiss to his palm, murmured that he loved him into the rough scars of his skin. 

And Wade knew that he did. He knew Peter loved him, he could feel it in his touch as he'd stayed next to Wade, kneeling on the bloodied carpet, bandaging up his wounded stomach even as he healed beneath him. He’d still been bleeding when Peter had taken him to bed, but Peter hadn’t complained, because Peter never complained, no matter how many times Wade had stained their sheets with blood. He'd helped Wade out of his ripped suit, into bed, and then he’d let Wade fuck him, legs around Wade’s waist, scratching down his back but being very careful to avoid the spot where the blade had come out the other side, passing clean through him. Then he’d fallen asleep, curled up against Wade’s chest, but not before pressing a kiss to his shoulder, murmuring, “I’m glad you’re okay,” and, “I love you,” into the hard ridges of Wade’s skin.

Wade loves him more than he thought it was even possible to love someone. He loves him so much.

He finally looks away from Peter, up towards the ceiling, at the glow in the dark stars Peter had put up at Wade’s expense after somebody had told him a joke about how Canadians are scared of the dark. It makes his chest ache again, because Peter's become ingrained into every inch of the apartment. The stars on the ceiling, his shoes by the door, the missing tiles in the bathroom from the time they had tried to have sex in the shower and Peter had scratched at the wall a little too hard. Even the pillow beneath Wade’s head, because Peter had bought all the pillows in the apartment, ‘cause Wade hadn’t had any and hadn’t cared enough to go get them.

 _You don’t deserve him_ , that voice reminds him again, and Wade looks back down at Peter, at the way his hair fans out across the pillow, at all the pale skin on display, sheets tangled loosely around his tiny waist. Wade _doesn’t_ deserve him. Not at all.

He looks back up at the ceiling, at all of Peter’s glow in the dark stars. _He’s too good for you_ , that voice chimes, almost cloying, and Wade fucking knows that, too. Peter’s too pure, too kind, too good for Wade, but he makes Wade want to be a better person.

So Wade does the most selfless thing he’s ever done. He kisses Peter's hair, and slides out from under him slowly. He dresses, pulls on a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt from the very bottom of his dresser, clothes that don't smell like Peter, and stuffs his suit, still bloodied, into a bag he swings over his shoulder. 

He looks back at Peter as he pulls his hood up, baseball cap pulled down low over his head. He looks angelic, curled up beneath Wade's sheets, hair fanned out across the pillow, eyelashes against his cheeks. 

Wade loves him. Wade loves him so much. 

So Wade does what Wade does best. He adjusts the bag over his shoulder, he turns, and he leaves. 

He leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> dont forget to come find me on [tumblr](http://sweetheaert.tumblr.com)!!! im always down for prompts/requests/just talking about how fucking great spideypool is so dont be afraid to hmu :~)


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